The Alien Detective (The Exchange, Book1)
by zmkuzma
Summary: Two detectives—one in space and one on earth—are on the hunt for a dangerous alien criminal hiding somewhere on the planet Earth. In the fugitive's possession is a mysterious stolen prototype with a function that has been kept in strict secrecy—a device capable of throwing the Earth in its entirety into a state of utter chaos. What does this device do? And how can it be stopped?
1. Quinten

1. Quinten

The days of the week meant nothing to him.

Nor did the hours of the day.

He lived only in the passing of time and by the light of the sun. He kept no appointments, looked forward to nothing, and tried his best not to think of the past.

By daylight, he walked the neighborhood, picking through garbage cans for things to eat. Sometimes he would wander to the parks and sit on the ground. If he was lucky, someone passing by would toss a coin into the hat he always sat in front of him. In time, he might save enough for something special—a cheeseburger or a can of skunky beer.

At night, he slept inside a box.

His name was Quinten Garrison, and this was where his life would suddenly change:

Inside a box.


	2. Qua'gar

**2. Qua'gar**

The room was black except for a dim spotlight illuminating a large table. Six bright projections were arranged about its oblong length. Positioned at the head of the table was a single empty chair.

"Qua'gar, thank you for coming," a voice echoed through the room. "Please have a seat."

A thin trail of light blinked along the dark floor in a pathway from Qua'gar's feet to the open chair. She stood in the doorway looking at the scene before her, somewhat dumbfounded. It was rare that the Six would summon a single government employee—let alone a detective.

Even her partner, Flaht, an old veteran of the special crimes unit, was stunned and appalled when the order first came through. He was convinced that it couldn't be good. "It's a travesty!" he'd bellowed. "Whatever they claim you did, I'll speak in your defense. You're one of the best we've got—and I mean that, Qua'gar! Those terrorists on Capella or the heist near Zosma—we'd all still be out hunting for ghosts if you hadn't worked those cases!"

For her part, Qua'gar tried not to think about it. It was not the place of a detective to question the summons of the Six. Her only option was to obey.

She followed the trail of lights up to the empty chair and dutifully took a seat. On the table in front of her, to her surprise, there was an old-fashioned binder filled with—if she wasn't mistaken—paper. As far as she knew, there were only a handful of planets that still used paper, and they were each protected by the Substrata clauses of Alliance law.

"We know that this is an unusual situation," said one of the Six. "We thank you for your prompt attendance." Qua'gar looked up from the puzzling packet and faced the speaker. It was Ghir-ty, the representative of the Arxx sector. The white light of his projection rippled slightly with static. Though he was rendered only in grayscale now, Qua'gar knew that he in fact has purple-colored skin.

Ghir-ty spoke slowly through the universal translator. "Relax, detective, you are not here to receive a punishment of any kind."

Qua'gar said nothing. And she didn't relax.

"You are more than welcome to speak," said another of the Six. Flickering in the pixels of her projection, it was Ho-kopolo of the Wotjoply sector. Ho-kopolo looked more like a mass of flesh than a living being. She had no eyes, but many tiny ears—all of which seemed to be trained on Qua'gar. There was no doubt that Ho-kopolo was carefully listening to the audio feed for the slightest changes in Qua'gar's physiology to detect her health, mood, and emotional state. "After all, we did not bring you here to speak to a mindless soldier. This is a time of great and dire need!"

The six projections surrounding Qua'gar at the table fell silent, waiting for a response.

The detective shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "May I question, then, honorable ones, what I've been brought in to discuss?" she asked.

The projection sitting immediately across from Qua'gar suddenly rose to its feet. It was Dal, president of the Ag-ti and current chairman of the Six. She was, by far, the most imposing of them all. Her long body was armless and the ceremonial cloak representing her leadership draped along the back of her sleek form. Four faces jutted from her torso, one immediately at the apex of her stature, two down either side on her left and right, and a fourth directly in the center of her chest, facing Qua'gar. It was said that her countenance transcended race and language, and, sitting in front of Dal for the first time in her life, Qua'gar felt nearly overwhelmed by her presence.

"You are here, detective," Dal said, her tone grave and ominous, "to discuss an especially dire assignment."


	3. Kinsley

3. Kinsley

Just a moment ago, the man was impossibly loud, inconsolable, raucous, and in total denial of all claim to his crimes.

But now he rested limply in the secured chair, the handcuffs around his wrists and ankles hanging silent.

Agent Marc Kinsley studied the suspect sitting across from him. Lloyd Simmons. Large and balding. Patchy, grey stubble spotting his face. Even though he'd been detained for less than half a day, he looked as if he'd been in hellish captivity for weeks.

Kinsley didn't look much better. They'd been talking for a long time, and the things that he'd learned from Lloyd Simmons were distressing. Kinsley slowly packed away his files in his briefcase and rubbed the bridge of his nose in exhaustion and concealed frustration. At this point, Kinsley felt mostly full of pity for Simmons.

But he still needed one last piece of information.

Laying on the table in front of Kinsley was a notepad, filled with hastily written words. He flipped his frantic scrawls aside to the next clean page. At the top, he carefully penned two lines to start:

12 HOURS AFTER EX. SUBJ. DOUBTS IDENTITY  
DEVICE RELINQUISHED IMMEDIATELY AFTER EXCHANGE

"Last few questions for you, Mr. Simmons," Kinsley said, breaking the somber silence. "Bare with me just a bit longer."

At the sound of Kinsley's voice, Simmons slowly raised his head.

"The name?" Kinsley asked.

Simmons' eyes bored into Kinsley's. There was no malice in them—instead, he seemed to be seeking confirmation. Kinsley nodded at him. "In order to help, I need the name," he urged.

Simmons slowly nodded. "Paul Sawyer," he said.

Kinsley nodded slowly and recorded the name.

"Address?"

"1112 N. Buchanan Blvd.," Simmons breathed. "Apartment 5A."

"What kind of building is it?"

Simmons' frowned and polled his mind for an answer. For a long moment, he looked as if he was searching for something that wasn't there.

"Take your time," Kinsley said gently. "I'm ready when you are."

Simmons' chest rose and fell heavily before he finally said, "It's a walk-up. There's a buzzer that lets people in with an intercom. It's broken right now."

Kinsley wrote all of this down. "Immediate family?"

"A wife, Jo, and..." he paused. "And an eight-year-old daughter, Marie."

"How about a good friend...? Someone that's around or on the phone regularly?"

"A brother. He lives nearby," Simmons said.

"And his name?"

"Austin... And his girlfriend too, Madeline. Joanna is friends with her."

Kinsley wrote, and for a moment, there was no sound in the room except for the scratching of pen on paper. When he was finally done, Kinsley reviewed all that he'd recorded. Simmons seemed ready to provide more answers, like talking about these kinds of things gave him comfort and illuminated those corners of his memory that had previously been dark, but Kinsley suddenly stood. He had no more questions to give.

"Mr. Simmons, I do thank you for the time you've given me today." As he spoke, Kinsley put his suit jacket on and tucked his notes into his inside breast pocket. He picked up his suitcase and paused, watching the man. "Are there any questions you might have for me? Anything I can do?"

Lloyd Simmons continued to stare at Kinsley. His features, eroded from the stress of the many interrogations he'd endured since his arrest, seemed to flicker with one last desperate sign of hope.

"Will you really help them?" he asked.

Kinsley walked across the room to the door in the wall behind Simmons. Before turning the knob, he stopped and returned Simmons' gaze.

"I'll do everything I can," he said—and left.


End file.
